I struggle to commit, I resist the aloof desinterest that is the shadow of my wings and attempt with all the falsity that I can reproduce to engage. So here I committed to the soil, here where so much history is traceable that where its roots are grounded my past sew its seeds. Here in New York, where words first erected a dam of stones and I revisited the meaning that it formed. So I sat foot, as others before. I engaged. This city is a marvellous flower in a green meadow, a world in which every drop of water is blood, every gush of wind is a last breath, yes, the sky a heaven. From the worthless worms and ants, how am I different? Life is raising above us, its clouds like silver platters serving us a ray of sunlight. How can it all not be one? Humbly do I prostrate and kiss the dust, grind its dirt like sugar between my teeth.
From the worms to the birds
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